Nightmares
by LaurieQ
Summary: Working a charity haunted house just isn't supposed to be this complicated... of course, the haunted spirits aren't supposed to kill anyone either... This is a previously completed story I'll be posting over the next 3 days for Halloween. Although it is consistent with my story arc, none of the details in this are needed in the other tales.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

"Aw, come on Joe! You know you quit caring what your Halloween costume was when they stopped making Batman suits in your size!" Frank Hardy chuckled at his year younger brother, eyeing the childish pout. Nothing about the tanned countenance suggested Joe had turned twenty-four the previous spring.

"That's not true, brother o' mine. I'm fine without the Batman gear. It's not getting any candy that's a gyp." Joe laughed, ruining the faux petulant expression as a distinct twinkle lit the sapphire eyes. "Besides, I can still get a Caped Crusader suit if I want; I saw one online."

"Whatever, Joe, but I think Vanessa might have something to say about that. I have it on good authority that your wife matched her costume to yours, and I'm pretty sure she has no intention of going anywhere dressed as Robin."

"Who said anything about Robin? Ness would make a smokin' Catwoman." A goofy grin suggested Joe had momentarily forgotten his sibling's existence. "All that black leather virtually painted on and those pointy little ears..."

"Whoa!... Way, way more than I want to know about my sister-in-law! Those of us that are spending the evening stag are trying to keep this strictly PG."

"I know any number of young ladies that would make sure you didn't spend any of your evenings going stag, Frank." Joe waited, leaving the statement hanging.

A heavy sigh escaped the brunette before he answered, toffee brown eyes cast down at his suddenly intriguing shoes. "I thought we agreed not to talk about that anymore."

Joe's blond waves shook in denial as he glanced around the painfully neat living room of his brother's apartment. "No, you declared we weren't talking about it. I never agreed."

Frank managed a small smile, the joking mood of two minutes earlier annoyingly elusive. "Not today, ok? Some of us have a full day's work to do."

"Fine, not today, but you can't fill every minute of every day with work forever."

"Technically, I can, or at least tonight." Frank stood and retrieved a black rectangle faintly shimmering with silver letters from the glass table beside his front door. "The party isn't over until two a.m., and I'm not taking a four hour break unlike some lazy people."

"Hey! The break isn't my fault, you know. How was I supposed to guess you'd agree to work Halloween night? Who does that? All I have to do is pass out a little candy while Vanessa's out with her nieces and then I'll meet you and Dad."

"Nieces?" Frank frowned. His sister-in-law was only child, and unless he'd mysteriously forgotten something rather drastic about his own life, Joe was _not_ an uncle.

"They call her Aunt Vanessa; that makes them nieces." Joe made a noncommittal gesture. "Actually, they're her mother's older brother's grandchildren."

Frank nodded absently, re-reading the invitation between his fingers. "First cousins once removed then. So she's taking them trick or treating and you're staying at the house?"

"Yeah." Joe took a hurried step back from the offered piece of card stock. "Trick or treat ends at nine o'clock, although she might be back before that if the girls give out. The older one's only four."

"Does Vanessa remember how much junk food you can actually consume? If she's leaving you in charge, she better pick up another dozen bags of treats." Frank turned the ebony paper over. "Huh, it says the mansion where the party's being held was named Sunrise in 1757 when Gabriel Hammonds wed Eliza Dutcher on the grounds at dawn. His son, Isaac, inherited the estate upon his father's death in October 1777 at the Battle of Freeman's Farm."

"Wasn't Freeman's Farm up closer to Albany?" Joe felt an eighth grade history lecture clunking around in his skull, but it wouldn't quite come to him.

"Didn't think you remembered anything from New York Studies." Frank snorted at his little brother's grimace. Mrs. Knapp had been truly unpleasant as a teacher, and it took a lot for Frank to say that.

The lecture finally clicked. "Just because I didn't like the class doesn't mean I didn't learn anything. The Battle of Freeman's Farm, led by General Horatio Gates and Benedict Arnold started in September. Arnold led an aggressive charge at the British using Colonel Daniel Moore's long riflemen in addition to regular troops, but Gates wouldn't leave his fortifications. The Revolutionary forces still won, but it wasn't the rout it could have been. General Burgoyne was still able to lead another battle in early October and his army didn't surrender until mid-October, I think."

"That's considerably more than I remember about it, Joe. How come you always stayed under the bookworm radar in school? You had a lot better grades than most of our friends realized."

Joe flushed slightly, secretly pleased his academically accomplished brother noticed, before smirking and making sure the coffee table was between them. "I was already better at sports than you, Frank, if everybody knew I was smarter too it would have been embarrassing - for you!"

It took a moment for the comment to register and by then his younger sibling had rounded the end of the table and snatched a huge wrapped golf umbrella out of a sleek black stand. Frank lunged at him, snagging an unused cane from the obsidian cylinder on the way by. Ten sweaty minutes that Zorro would have applauded later, both of them were still intently focused on an intricate series of thrusts and parries, having abandoned the living room in favor of the back deck.

"Ahem... Ahem!... AHEM! CHILDREN!"

Sudden silence descended, a red cheeked Joe frozen with the furled umbrella above his head in both hands, neatly blocking the down-swinging cane.

Slowly both of them lowered their hands to their sides and their eyes to the floor, chests heaving. Frank found the air to speak first. "Uh, hi Dad. Didn't hear you come in."

"Obviously not." Fenton looked from one to the other, seeing the mischievous boys they had been rather than grown men. They were clearly sheepish at being caught horsing around rather than angry with one another. "Might I inquire as to what in the blazes you two are doing?"

"Reviewing New York state history. Frank started it." Joe's expression and delivery were dead on earnest, eliciting a quickly suppressed smile from his father and an incredulous stare from his brother.

" _I_ started it? Who grabbed my umbrella and turned it into a sword?"

"You started it." Joe managed to spit this out as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You told me about the history of the Sunrise mansion, which made me ask about the Revolutionary War, which led you to remembering what a phenomenal student I was, which necessitated a reminder that I wasn't merely some brilliant scholar with a display of my equally amazing fencing abilities. Ergo, _you_ started it."

"Well that certainly makes perfect sense." Fenton shook his head. "Anything broken?"

"Us or the house?" Frank propped the cane against the deck rail.

"You two."

"No."

"Then we can get to work, I assume?" Fenton walked back through the kitchen, casting a glance at the two Continental Army uniforms on the back of the closet door, one plain spun, the other formal, but tattered and blood streaked.

"That's all you're going to say to him, Dad? He could have busted half my furniture!" Frank produced a wonderful imitation of the whine everyone outside the family seemed to think was exclusive to Joe.

"But he didn't. Besides, it's not my house." Fenton flashed a conspiratorial grin at his younger son.

"Fine." Frank gave up any pretense of being annoyed, an open grin lighting his face. "It always works when _he_ tries to get _me_ in trouble, though. Heck, it almost worked just now."

"Yep," Joe winked, plopping his feet on Frank's desk. "It's good to be the baby..."

Fenton cleared his throat, tapping one finger on the map he had unrolled on the table. "If the baby could possibly refocus his attention and recall that he's married with a full time job... One I pay him for, I might add..."

Frank snickered.

"I sign your checks, too, Frank." Despite the dry words, Fenton was happy to see the high jinks. His older child had been far too serious of late. "The gate house is here and will have regular security guards that work for the estate year around as well as two officers from the Bayport police department. They're as much there to direct traffic as anything else, though, so once the guests are inside, security is pretty much up to us. Officially, Chief Collig doesn't provide staffing for private parties at taxpayer expense. Unofficially, a number of senior off duty officers made the guest list and will be available if we need them."

Joe scanned his eyes over the roster of expected attendees, noting the who's who of Bayport and all the bigwigs of the local university, which stood to reason since the Sunrise estate was currently owned by Bayport U. The house had been restored to its 1777 state, thankfully well documented in Isaac Hammonds' journal.

Party was a rather loose term for the event as far as Joe was concerned. The majority of those invited would be working the first half of the evening as the various ghost and goblins of a haunted house, with the admission cost serving as a fund raising drive for university programs. After the haunted mansion closed to the public at eleven o'clock, then the evening morphed into a social gathering. "Once the doors close, I don't see this group as being particularly rowdy. The main task is to ensure that everyone not on the guest list actually leaves when the public portion is over."

"I agree." Fenton paused, pointing out a few places on the grounds he didn't consider well secured. "While most of the guests are locally prominent, there's no one attending that would warrant hiring personal security. The university's primary reason for hiring us is to protect the antiques in the house."

Frank couldn't really picture the gathering of volunteer businessmen, professors, and trustees as rambunctious either. "All of the furniture is original to the period and fairly valuable, but it's a little large to walk off with under a ghost's sheet. The focus of any theft would almost have to be the displays of Eliza Dutcher Hammonds' jewelry and the artwork throughout the mansion. This painting and this one are worth roughly a million dollars apiece." He shuffled his desk to display the appropriate photographs.

Joe nodded. He'd gone over all of this with Frank days ago, but this was the first opportunity they'd had to run it through with their father who had been out of town. "There may be one thing working in our favor that you haven't mentioned, Dad."

"What's that?" Fenton was meticulous in cataloguing all the pros and cons of any situation, whether it was an international terrorist plot or a simple case of a college that didn't want their historical artwork stolen. Still, if Joe saw something he didn't, he was all ears.

"The premise for the haunted house itself..." Joe trailed off, searching for the best description. "It's a bit, ah, dull."

Fenton's expression shifted toward quizzical. "How so?"

"By keeping to the revolutionary era and the story of the house itself, it limits the sort of monsters, for lack of a better word, that you can portray. I know ol' Gabe here," Joe affectionately smacked at his brother's shoulder as Frank would be dressing as the long deceased Colonel, "is supposed to haunt the place, but a bunch of phantom soldiers isn't as scary as what most kids are looking for on Halloween. I think the wilder college bunch will end up at the haunted corn maze out on route thirty five."

"Wild college kids wouldn't be likely to steal eighteenth century art, anyway, Joe."

"True," Frank conceded, "but Joe has a point. The less mayhem around, the easier it is to spot anyone who does want to help themselves to a picture or a diamond or three."

"I suppose that makes sense, although the fact that the house is actually rumored to be haunted rather than a corn maze that is strictly imaginary may skew interest toward the estate."

"For the crowd that matters in this case, it will." Frank shrugged.

"And what crowd would that be?"

"The one that writes donation checks to support the university." Joe finished his brother's thought. "So, you have all your lines down pat, Frank?"

That was the disadvantage of being selected to be Gabriel. Frank was expected to guide groups through the outer cemetery and into the main house while spinning a yarn. "Yeah. Gabriel's story is relatively simple. He was wounded at Freeman's Farm and died there four days later, along with about half of Van Cortlandt's New York regiment. By the time Halloween rolled around three weeks later, most of the household staff insisted they'd seen him wandering his home in the days before and after he died, trying to regroup the soldiers under his command. Eliza finally found him and led him down to his grave; convinced him he was dead. Trouble with that theory is that she'd been dead a decade herself by then. Whatever happened to start off the stories, sightings of Gabriel on the grounds have been reported intermittently ever since."

"You are going to jazz that up a bit tonight, right?" Joe shot his brother a query completed with a single upraised eyebrow.

"Yes. For Pete's sake, Joe, I can spin a ghost story. I just find the whole idea vaguely ridiculous." Frank huffed a breath up through deep brown hair just verging on too long. "You shouldn't be too bored once you bother to arrive, though, little brother. The entire upstairs is devoted to other horror legends that existed at the time, which still counts in witches, vampires, werewolves, ghouls... All of those tales have been around pretty much forever."

"Still, it leaves out all the Freddy Kruger, Chainsaw Massacre types."

"Clearly that's a drawback." Fenton's wry sarcasm ground that line of discussion to a halt. He picked up the silver embossed invitation Frank had initially tried to give Joe and firmly planted it in his younger child's hand.  
"You'll need that for the directions on the back."

Joe's nose wrinkled up as if he'd been handed a half decomposed skunk dipped in swamp muck. "Uh, the GPS will be fine."

"I don't trust that contraption. Take the paper, just in case." Fenton shrugged. "Why don't you want the thing? Usually you humor me when I get in technophobe mode."

"It's that poetry on there. It's creepy. What kind of poem is that anyway?"

Frank studied the pale graphite calligraphy scrolled behind the bolder silver on black lettering before stuffing the item in his sibling's pocket. "A bad one. You can barely even see it, Joe."

"I can read it perfectly well, Frank. I can practically feel it and I tell you it's creepy!"

"Sure, o-kaaaay." Frank paused, suddenly disquieted, before shrugging. "Whatever. I'll see you at nine thirty."

Fenton looked from one child to the other, sensing the dynamic change but uncertain what caused it. His eyes strayed to the fake musket and long rifle accompanying the costumes. "Have fun passing out candy, Joe, and don't worry about hurrying on the way up there, the road's curvy."

He handed his child the simple clothing of a militia soldier, including the prop rifle. "I can trust you two not to brain each other over the head with those, right?"

Both sons genuinely smiled at him, the strange moment relegated to the past with a laugh. "Of course. If we wanted to shoot at each other, we'd have done it before now. Like when Frank backed over my mailbox, for instance."

Frank groaned. "You moved it to the other side of the driveway, Joe. Exactly how old do I have to get before you stop bringing that up?"

"A hundred and sixty two."

"Great. I'll pencil it in on the calendar."


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

"I'm just saying, nowhere did it mention how itchy this get up was." Joe fidgeted, picking at the rough homespun fabric of the loose trousers he was lacing. "And why did it take so blasted long to invent zippers? Answer me that."

"At least you can breathe." Vanessa laughed at her husband of four months, at least to the extent that someone wearing a tightly nipped corset can. "I'm considering hiding an oxygen tank beneath this skirt. Course, there's plenty of room under here for one."

Joe trailed an appreciative eye over the hourglass fit of the dress, thinking that whole corset thing might not be all bad, but he was smart enough not to say so. He settled his hands around Vanessa's waist, ignoring the muslin shirt he supposed to be donning. The prolonged kiss that followed didn't suggest he'd be needing one any time soon.

A tiny twittering sounded from the doorway, immediately inspiring Vanessa to shove him across their bedroom. "Sarah, sweetie, you didn't knock." Vanessa knelt and scooped the three year old into her arms. "Why don't you go back to the den with Kelsey and I'll be right there, ok?"

"Ok, Aunt 'Nessa." A sweep of pink tulle and glittery wings trailed in the toddler's wake.

By the time Vanessa figured out how to stand on her feet, Joe was not only wearing the shirt, but a boiled leather vest and some variety of tri-cornered cap. "Time to take Tinkerbelle out, huh?"

"Kelsey's Tinkerbelle. The pink outfit is Thumbelina. Tinkerbelle has to be green."

"Naturally. My mistake." Joe snuck in a far tamer peck on her cheek. "Call me when you get to your uncle's and I'll pick you up on the way to estate. Both of us will be on the main floor with the normal people so I can track who goes in and out."

"Normal people? I'm not sure if I'm flattered or offended, or how normal we can be in these clothes."

"It's Halloween, so these clothes are perfectly acceptable. Just itchy. Besides, I'm not sure what the term is for non-dead, non-dying, non-mythical, non-monster attired haunted house workers who are merely in period costume to maintain a certain flavor about the place while dividing the public into manageably sized tour groups and answering any questions they may have about donations or the house."

Vanessa grimaced. "You're right, that's way too much of a mouthful. Normal people will do just fine." Vanessa gave each of the young pixies a neon orange fabric pumpkin and grasped two small hands, stepping out onto the porch of their townhouse.

Joe watched her until the house at the end of the block obscured his view, the sight of his wife leading a pair of children tweaking a feeling he couldn't quite label. It looked... right. "Not today, Nessa, maybe not soon, but someday..."

The ringing of the doorbell broke the spell. Joe opened his front door to find a pint sized dragon, a princess, a bumblebee, and Spiderman.

"TRICK OR TREAT!"

Two hours later, the deluge of painted faces complete and every snickers bar and Reese cup safely packed off to a new home, Joe ran down the steps, wobbling as he pocketed his phone and slid into the driver's seat of his car for the second time. The first time he'd forgotten his rifle and that ridiculous invitation, backtracking into the house to retrieve them, and now he was late. He held the printed card long enough to skim the directions, which added absolutely nothing to the GPS route he didn't already know. By the time he finished reading, the urge to put the thing down was almost inescapable. Frank and his dad could laugh all they wanted, but the thing _was_ creepy. Tossing it in the passenger seat, Joe didn't realize he'd started repetitively blowing on his fingers. They were chilled through.

Vanessa climbed into the coupe fifteen minutes later, initially giggling and regaling Joe with tales of her first trip trick or treating in years. Five miles down the road, however, and her face was distinctly pinched.

"You okay, hun?" Joe pulled over to get a decent appraisal, surprised at how pale she'd become.

"Yeah." Vanessa struggled to smile, then gave up and shook her head. "No. I'm not sure if it was the cotton candy, or the candy apple, or the chocolates, but something isn't sitting well. I swear I was fine when I got in the car. Maybe it was the popcorn... or I had some of those little triangle yellow and orange thingies, uh, candy corn? Not that it matters at this point. Can you take me home, Joe? I'm sorry."

"And Frank accused me of being a junk food disposal." Joe tried to keep the quip light, but it fell flat as Vanessa flung her door open, knees landing on the scattered leaves barely in time to spare Joe's beloved GTO an intimate acquaintance with the previously consumed candy.

Joe was around the hood of the car almost before she touched the ground, one hand on her shoulder and the other holding back a cascade of ash blonde hair.

The choking coughs finally subsided. "Sorry. I think I can make it home now."

"Nothing to be sorry about. I don't want you home by yourself, though."

"It's only a stomach ache, Joe. I'll be fine. Besides, you can't stay home and leave Frank in a lurch."

"He'd have Dad..."

"I can hear in your voice how much you like that plan and you counted on all being there. I feel a lot better since I got some fresh air. Really." Vanessa pushed herself up from the ground far enough to slide into the passenger seat, faltering slightly when her palm scooted on something as she backed in. "What's this? I must have been sitting on it before."

Joe snatched it, flinging the small rectangle into the backseat. "Directions. Nessa, you're going to think this is nuts, but are you sure you weren't sick before you got in the car? Before you sat on that, that, poem?"

"I always think you're crazy Joe, but right now I want to go home and crawl in bed."

"Well... that idea always has merit."

"Alone."

"Hmph." Joe flicked his eyes to the backseat. "You weren't sick though... before... right?"

"No, I wasn't, but I'm sure it's the aftermath of an ill advised sugar binge. I'll be good as new by the time you get home." Vanessa was regaining a bit of her usual honey hued coloring.

"How about a deal? I don't stay and hover, but you go to my mom's house instead of our place."

"She already has your cousins for the night."

"They'll be asleep in an hour. I'm not going to keep my mind on work wondering if you're ok by yourself."

"Resorting to blackmail, Joe Hardy?"

"If it works." Joe laughed as Vanessa snuggled into his shoulder. Frank could mock his insistence at keeping a forty year old sports car all he wanted, but there was something to be said for bench seats. By the time they arrived at the Hardy's, Vanessa had fallen asleep, barely fluttering open her eyelashes long enough to allow Joe to guide her inside.

"Night, Joe, love you." The murmured words blended into an overstuffed pillow, and she never noticed him loosening the ties at the back of the antique style gown.

"Love you, too. I'll be back by morning." Joe kissed her on the forehead, doubting she heard a word.

He pulled in at Sunrise at five until ten, finally spotting his ethereally clad brother ten minutes later. Frank finished spooking the group he was currently leading about, then unobtrusively made his way to Joe. A number of costumed players continued a mock Revolution engagement behind him, the soldiers randomly firing from behind tombstones or sprawled on the damp earth.

"Where have you been!?" Frank looked frazzled.

"Sorry, Vanessa got sick and I had to take her to Mom's house."

"No, I'm sorry, Joe, I didn't mean to snap at you. There's a woman in a black strapless dress and wings weaving in and out and I need someone to check her out. I haven't been able to leave this area and keep an eye on the rest of the crowd at the same time."

"A little black dress and wings? Developing a naughty streak, Frank?"

"Would you grow up?"

"Not if I can help it." Joe graced his brother with an expression full of entirely inappropriate implications before settling back to more serious behavior. "I don't remember that from the list of costumes that are supposed to be part of the display. Are you certain she isn't part of the public crowd and simply decided to dress up on her own? I spotted a girl dressed as Raggedy Ann on the way up the drive; she definitely isn't performing a role in the haunted house unless you're afraid of red yarn."

"Miss Black Dress isn't on the volunteers list; I know that. I guess it's possible that she's touring like everybody else, but I've seen her with more than one group. Someone should follow her and make sure she actually leaves."

"Dad wouldn't do it?"

Frank let out a frustrated huff. "Oh, he wanted to, but on his first loop through the graveyard he, uh... let's go with discovered... a hole and twisted his ankle."

"That's not like Dad to be clumsy." Joe frowned. "He's ok?"

"He's fine, but he's not going to be tailing winged Morticia wanna be's or anyone else. Ezra's driving him home as soon as the last group goes through. Until then, he's got your job of greeting the crowd in the foyer and you get his assignment."

The younger Hardy nodded, already making mental adjustments. "If I'm going to be the roving member of this little project, I could use darker clothes."

"I don't think there is anything to change into, but one of the makeup artists from the university theater group is still here. She can spray the clothes and you into a passable ghost. You'll fit in anywhere in the house that way."

"Ok." Joe surveyed his brother's tattered uniform and unnaturally pale face. "She the one that turned you into the half dead?"

"Yeah. A little filth, stick on moss, and leaf litter and you'll look as debonair as the rest of us."

"Can't wait." Joe emerged from the gate house a few minutes later, his dirt smeared clothes and face now more suited to camouflage in the moonlit cemetery. A deep crimson stain dribbled its way down from a rip at the top of his shoulder.

Frank stuck a finger in the shredded fabric. "Too oblong for a musket wound. It's supposed to be from a bayonet, I'm guessing."

"Probably. Where's this hole so I don't step in it, too?"

Frank gestured at a large crypt covered in chiseled writing and topped by a five foot carved angel. The sculpture appeared to dressed in a Greek style gown, the stone fabric and her long hair billowing in a forever captured breeze, reflecting the neoclassical tendencies of the late 1700's. Now that he noticed, there were a number of mythological statues scattered about. "Right behind there. It wasn't there yesterday, but now it's like some miniature sink hole. It's not very wide, maybe eight inches, but I'd estimate it's seven or eight feet deep."

"Aren't sink holes supposed to be in Florida or something?"

"Um-hmm, but I'm thinking lecturing a crack in the ground on the inappropriateness of its geographic location isn't going to prove very productive. For now, I'd step around."

"Gee, wish I'd thought of that." Joe started to smack the heel of his hand on his forehead, then remembered the theatrical greasepaint and settled for a smirk. "I'll track down our mystery lady and check on the officers near the paintings; you shepherd the last few groups through the grounds. Try not to terrify anybody too much there, Casper."

####

Joe sighed, thoroughly annoyed. He'd caught three glimpses of the dark attired woman, the last of which was twenty minutes after even the stragglers of the crowd touring the haunted house had departed. He'd even found a few stray wing feathers. Each time he got close, however, she seemed to evaporate into thin air. Oh well. The paintings and jewelry were untouched, so strictly speaking, the job was successfully completed, but the loose end nagged at him. He stopped half way up the main carved staircase, nodding at the off-duty detective who was stationed on the marble landing.

"Not sure I'd want to steal that, no matter what it's worth." The officer gestured at the mammoth painting that stretched across seven feet of the wall. A dark sky loomed over a colonial landscape, the ground littered with fallen troops from both sides of what had apparently been a hard fought battle, but the swirling clouds hid iridescent ebony wings and half seen faces. "What's it supposed to be, anyway?"

"The painting depicts keres collecting the souls of dying soldiers on the battlefield and consigning them to Hades. Keres are mythical Greek spirits of violent death or plague, sometimes portrayed as women with dark wings or less commonly as a birds. They are considered to be sisters of the better known Fates and feast on misery and despair. Paintings involving the Greek pantheon or contemporary men dressed in Greek or Roman attire were common to the eighteenth century and often incorporated factual events, such as the Battle of Freeman's Farm seen here, with mythological characters."

The police detective cleared his throat, looking at Joe rather strangely. "Charming. You just happen to know all that off the top of your head or should I clue your father in that you're moonlighting as a professor?"

Joe let out a half snort. "Not hardly. That's what's engraved on the brass plate on the wall."

"Oh. Anyway, still not the sort of thing I'd want hanging in my house, even if did show an event in my family history. Half the people in it are ripped to shreds."

"Me neither. Do you know if my dad left yet?"

"Yeah, about forty minutes ago. The weather's getting nasty, so he wanted to beat the storm. Everyone who's staying for the private party is gathering in the ballroom downstairs."

Joe nodded, repressing a shudder as he glanced at the painting again. Whatever else it might be, it was ugly. "Guess I may as well go down there and face the music then. I have to tell Frank I couldn't catch his mystery lady and double check the head count; make sure everyone's accounted for."

"Yeah, think I'll head down myself."

Joe pivoted, the toe of his right boot somehow catching the wide leg of his linen trouser and throwing him off balance. Both hands shot out for the sleek polished mahogany of the banister and for a fleeting second he thought he was going to salvage the graceless maneuver. Unfortunately, his eyes skimmed the grotesque upper corner of the painting as his head arced around and he saw it. Or rather he didn't. The fanned wings there were gone. The thought barely had time to register as he juggled himself from one foot to the other, but the distraction was enough. His mind banished the ludicrous observation with a mantra of don't fall, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall...

He fell. A final flailing grapple of his hands against the marble tread of the third step failed him, as did the detective's futile grab that came away with only a hat. Some portion of him instinctively sought to curl into a ball, but his momentum carried him backwards, the back of his head striking the fifth or sixth step with a crack heard throughout the lower story of the house. The only one who didn't hear it was Joe.

He knew nothing of the lower half of the staircase, landing in a sprawled heap on his stomach, limbs flung this way and that, a folded black paper rectangle half out of his pocket. An expanding dribble of red seeped through the blonde hair, marring the pristine black and white tile of the foyer... and someone smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

"JOE!"

Frank dashed through the front door at a flat out run, wet boots skidding to a halt at the crimson smear on the tiles. The determination in the dark eyes faltered, a lost fear creeping over his features before his gaze latched onto a familiar police detective standing in front of heavily carved oak. He found himself well within Con Riley's personal space and not caring, spattering rain drops over the other man in an attempt to shove around him and through the door.

"Frank, calm down!" Con planted a hand on each of the young man's sodden shoulders, acutely aware that the adolescent he'd been introduced to as a rookie cop was long gone, replaced with a twenty five year old both taller and quite likely stronger than he was. He pointed at the bottom step, hoping he sounded more authoritarian than he felt dressed in tattered mummy rags. "Sit."

"Where's Joe? He's in there, isn't he? Let me through, Con!" An urgent push propelled the detective backward.

"Frank! That's enough! Now sit." Detective Riley took a deep breath, holding his ground after that initial retreat. Frank Hardy was a friend and an extraordinarily reasonable young man - on every topic but one. "Dr. Bates is in there with Joe. He's not going to be able to do anything for your brother with you breathing down his neck, so sit down and act like you plan on getting some use out of the brain everyone assures me is in your head."

Frank sank to the step, confused and suddenly deflated. "But... Officer Morris... he said... he said... ...Joe's ok?"

"He took a good knock, but that skull of his is pretty hard. Let's wait until the doc comes out before scheduling a panic fest, ok?" Con sat down beside the younger man, leaving a sympathetic hand on his arm. "Now what exactly did that knucklehead Morris say that inspired you to charge in here like that?"

Frank rasped through a dozen shaky breaths before he answered, allowing the idea that there was a horrid misunderstanding to percolate through his mind, but he couldn't quit staring at the blood on the floor. "That _is_ Joe's, though, right?"

Riley nodded, alert for the slightest sign Frank's composure might fail him again. Hey, the pyramids exist and something hauled those monoliths to Stonehenge; it could happen.

"Morris said Joe fell and split his head on the stairs, I believe his exact words were 'you could hear it all over the house, he went over backwards like he was gonna break his neck or something and then there was this huge crack.' I asked him if the ambulance was here yet; I didn't know how long it took him to find me. He said... Con, he said you weren't going to call one, that there wasn't any point."

"What?! And he didn't feel the need to elaborate on that comment?"

"I, ah, may not have given him much opportunity after that. I took off and he apparently doesn't run all that fast." Frank pried his eyes from the floor. "Is that what you said?"

"Yes," Con held up a hand to forestall a protest, "but only because Dr. Bates is already here attending the party, his zero-to-ten-Joe-hurt-himself-again alarm meter is only ratcheted up to two point five, and the rain flooded out the underpass at the end of the road. Any traffic in or out of here over the next few hours is going to be strictly off-roading it through the woods, and there may not be any need to jar Joe around like that."

"Has Bates said anything about how he is yet? Was he awake after he fell?" Frank stood, moving toward the closed door opposite the ballroom almost without conscious volition. He avoided the concerned glances of the party goers milling about at the foyer's edge, uninterested in anyone other than his brother at the moment.

"No, to either one. It's been a while, let's see what we can find out." The detective raised a hand to knock on the door, only mildly surprised when it opened before he had the chance. Frank's voice in the hall would have been hard to miss.

"How's Joe?"

Dr. Bates smiled, the gesture siphoning tension out of the room, before flipping back the heavy folds of a vampire cape to shake hands with the older of the brothers. "Come in and see for yourself, Frank. He's just starting to stir; let him wake up on his own. Ordinarily, I'd recommend a trip to the emergency room as a precaution, but given the travel circumstances, we can make due here. If I hadn't seen some of them personally over the years, I'd swear your brother has rubber bones. I don't think he broke a thing, although he'll certainly be sore."

Frank spared only a second's glance on his surroundings, a lifetime of honed observational skills automatically cataloguing peripheral items as potentially usefully or threatening. It wasn't that he anticipated trouble, simply that each of the brothers had a built in protective streak when the other was vulnerable. Deep cranberry fabric on the walls and cushions swallowed the feeble gas light and a corner fireplace contributed nothing to dispel the gloom, the grate swept clean long ago. An over-sized dining table dominated the area, centered on a huge blood toned rug and surrounded by a dozen formal chairs. A small tapestry ottoman bore the remnants of the doctors effort's, it's surface strewn with crumpled red streaked gauze.

Joe was laying on his side on a low padded divan and ironically looked better than the last time Frank had seen him. The macabre theater make up had been wiped away, leaving him pale and with the faint promise of what would be a spectacular black eye come morning.

"What about his head?" Frank had already crossed the distance to his sibling, dropping to sit on the limestone floor . His fingers explored the damp blonde waves, rapidly locating a swelling lump and a tidy line of glued skin.

The doctor scratched his fingers through hair unnaturally black and slicked back from a high forehead, not used to the stiff grease that was far more Vlad the Undead than Bates the Medic. "He should be ok. I'm certain he has a concussion, and I don't want him up walking around no matter how fine he claims he is, but if you can keep him on that couch until morning, I don't expect any problems. You still remember the head injury instructions I gave you the last time I took care of Joe?"

The wry inquiry drew a small nod from Frank as he relaxed a notch. "Yeah, I thought about keeping a copy in my wallet, but I've pretty much had them memorized since his sophomore year of high school."

"Why'd you wait that long?" Bates laughed softly. "Keep an eye on the derma bond, too. I would have preferred sutures in the hairline like that, but that's all the first aid kit had to work with. If you can stay with Joe, I'm going to check on everyone else since it appears we're all here until the thunderstorm lets up. I'll be back in a bit."

"Other injuries?" That idea puzzled Frank. It was a party for goodness sake, not the World Cup.

"Other than your father's ankle, you mean? I'm glad he went home while he could." Dr. Bates walked toward the other half of the first floor. "Just one. Supposedly Mr. and Mrs. Fennimore got in an argument and she kicked him in the shin. I'm sure it's nothing."

Frank shut his mouth with an audible click. "The Fennimore's? Aren't they eighty years old?"

"Eighty six and eighty seven, actually. Married before I was born and never had an argument that anyone's heard about. It's an odd night."

Looking between his bruised brother, the blood stained waistcoat of his colonial uniform, the shroud wrapped Riley, and Dr. Bates' sharply pointed fangs, Frank had to agree.

 _He's ours... he disturbed us and is forfeit... before the obscenity of day comes again... we collect what is owed us..._

"Frank?" The word sounded in the younger Hardy's head, but it wouldn't quite cross his lips. He wormed a thick tongue through lips coated with what was surely superglue, convinced a fine layer of flesh peeled away. Maybe moving would be simpler than speaking. A tentative twitch of his neck banished that notion before it fully formed. "Frank?"

"Hey, Joe." Frank kept his voice low. His brother likely had a headache worthy of three days at a Woodstock re-enactment. "You going to open your eyes finally?"

"Wasn't planning on it." The words rolled out easier, his tongue shrinking perhaps not to normal but at least to something shy of a bullfrog's.

"Humor me and do it anyway."

Joe forced one eye open, wincing even in the dim light.

"Both of them, ok?"

"You hate me... Why did it take me until now to figure that out?" The other eye opened and Joe waited while his brother checked his pupils, eventually giving a small nod.

"I pass inspection?" Joe had already let his eyelids drift closed again.

"Yeah, I think so, but I'd be happier if you stayed awake a few minutes." Frank nudged softly at his sibling's shoulder.

"No." The words disintegrated into a murmur. "Wanna stare in my eyes longer than that, bring me flowers..."

"Apparently hitting your head didn't improve your jokes any." Frank waited several minutes, deciding Joe had gone back to sleep when he didn't say anything further.

 _Forfeit..._

A small triangle of black caught Frank's eye, sticking out of Joe's pant pocket. "So you brought the invitation after all, huh Joe? Thought you said it was creepy."

Receiving no answer from his sleeping brother, the older Hardy plucked the paper out, frowning as he began to read. Confused, he fished his own invite out of his coat, comparing the two.

Superficially they were the same, silver letters boldly proclaiming the university fundraiser's time, date, and purpose, while a soft charcoal colored poem appeared in a gothic script in the background.

 _Mr. Frank Hardy and Guest are cordially invited to attend... blah, blah, blah..._

The poem underneath was difficult to see, but being unable to make it out hadn't struck Frank as problematic when he puzzled through the opening stanzas after it first arrived.

 _Halloween parties are such a blast_

 _And costume rentals are going fast_

 _So choose your monster and sign up now_

 _Sunrise Mansion's the place to howl_

 _Eight to eleven play your part_

 _Show the university you've got heart_

 _After haunted tours, the fun's for you_

 _Stay with us and dance 'til two_

Actually, reading any more of that could be permanently damaging to your brain, so when Joe had unexpectedly proclaimed it creepy, Frank hadn't made any effort to inspect his brother's copy. Maybe creepy if you're afraid of metamorphosing into Dr. Seuss. Seriously, reading through that hokum once was painful enough. Now, however, he was stuck sitting on the floor for the night, he needed to stay awake, and he would have read a Cheerios box if he'd had one.

 _Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Hardy are cordially invited to attend..._

No surprises there. He turned his attention to the poetry.

 _Clash of will, red ebbed flow,_

 _Turmoil's field, moonlight's glow._

 _Marked to die, fear the night,_

 _Victorious, condemned, drowned light._

 _Naive children, self clothed in hell_

 _Offer unaware, soul to sell,_

 _False guises, the dark twists true,_

 _Fiends transformed, weak spirit slew._

 _Daybreak steals brief death to life,_

 _But for that now owned by Strife._

 _Disturbed in rest we claim our own,_

 _Fooled not by youth glossed bone._

 _The living walled beyond our grasp,_

 _The dead unfit to end our fast._

 _Soul between, ours to take,_

 _Frail flesh devoured, Fates' stake._

 _Sunlight child, his battle lost,_

 _Afraid to pay the saving's cost._

 _Fearless of enemy, bravery's liar,_

 _Choice to fight, dooms to pyre._

 _Hades beckons, our wandering done,_

 _Freedom sealed but for the one._

 _Sated, sleeping, blood filled gorge,_

 _His drained husk flung to the Forge._

 _Our hour past, reveled rot return,_

 _Mortal trials now no concern._

 _Seraph may grant these children life_

 _But we come again at drum and fife._

 _Still, him the angel cannot free,_

 _Eaten sinew sold by thee._

 _Bribe paid, our absence bought,_

 _His sundered form cannot be sought._

 _Hallow's night now rose streaked day_

 _Mars' strong sons in crypts to lay_

 _All sides lost, none has won_

 _Save the worms that feast the son._

"I don't know about creepy, but yours is definitely weird..."

"Frank?" Joe stretched slightly.

"Um-hmm?"

"Tell me I didn't fall down a whole flight of stairs."

"I can tell you that, but I suspect your body's going to tell you something very different as soon as you try to sit up, little brother."

"Great." Joe pushed up on his elbows, surprised when Frank pushed him right back down again.

"Sitting up wasn't a suggestion. Dr. Bates wants you on this couch until morning."

Joe shook his head, which turned out to be a very short lived activity.  
"Wow, that makes things spin... I was having the strangest dream. You were in the army and got shot."

"Knocking your noggin will make for some odd dreams. Hate to squelch your imagination, but I think I'll pass on this one. Not a real fan of anything that involves getting perforated."

"Yeah, guess not." Joe blinked his eyes into focus, the long lashes suddenly glaringly wide as his finger traced the irregular red swath bisecting his brother's chest.

"Joe! Costume party, remember?" Frank dislodged his shirt from Joe's fist, trying to quell his sudden panic. "It's stage blood. Haunted house... Continental Army uniforms... fundraiser? Ringing a bell yet? It's stage blood..."

The second time that statement inched its way into the younger Hardy's head, the slowing breaths falsely reassuring his sibling. "Stage blood... yeah..." _but it's warm..._

 _forfeit..._


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

 _I can't do this. I thought I could. Heck, thought I could do anything to save him. Has to be something besides this. What if I'm wrong?_

Joe paced the shadowed dining room, unconsciously running sweaty palms over the already damp thighs of his trousers, breath huffing out in panicked little darts. The roil in his stomach threatened again, a mere fifteen minutes since he'd deposited everything he'd eaten in a decade in an antique porcelain chamber pot. He started to sit down, bruised legs protesting the movement, then stood again before he'd fully contacted the chair. He repeatedly swallowed down bile, whirling like a mad man at a clatter behind him, only to find he'd knocked over the chair in his restlessness. He clenched his trembling hands into fists.

 _Come on Joe, calm yourself down. He's gonna be here any minute, can't be a blanged basket case. I've got to hold this together, make this evening as right as I can. In case.. damn, can't even think it to myself...in case this doesn't work. In case this evening is it. Can't do this. No, have to. I have to. I'm sorry there isn't something else Frank. Anything else..._

Joe glanced at his pocket watch, breath lunging into race horse mode when he saw the time. Crap, crap, crap. He stuffed a dark feather beneath the divan and tried to summon at least tolerance for the hot soup his brother was bringing, insisting it would clear Joe's head. He couldn't recall a time he'd felt less like eating. Normally, Frank would instantly notice every altered detail in a room, every expression on his sibling's face. Tonight, Joe was counting on a little distraction.

One o'clock. Frank would be waltzing through the carved door any time now to check on him, both of them agreeing even their father would be an unwelcome intrusion tonight. Frank because he felt the night's task was unavoidable; Joe praying it was anything but. Frank deserved so much better than a shaky prayer. Better than the crazy idea fermenting in Joe's head these last few hours.

One-fifteen. Twenty five years of his brother's life had come down to less than two hours. Joe scrambled to stow the long gun and powder bag out of sight as the floor creaked outside the door.

 _Big breath, it's show time. Just a few hours to go now. A few hours to keep my act together, to choke down some soup, to make sure Frank knows that I... Well, to make sure he knows._

 _Can't do this..._

"Joe, open the door, will ya? My hands are too full to work the catch. You weren't supposed to be off the couch to latch it." Frank's voice was surprisingly normal as he pushed into the room.

 _Course it's normal, he doesn't realize I know, and he can't_...

Frank ladled a rich squash soup into delicate china bowls. "A little healthy for your taste, I know, but somehow I don't think meatballs and cocktail wieners with cheese dip are on the head injury approved list."

 _The smell alone may kill me..._

Frank took in the fine sweat covering Joe, the uncharacteristic jerking of his movements. "You okay, Joe?"

 _No, Frank, how could this possibly be ok?_ _Tomorrow morning either I'm gonna be a murderer, or you're gonna be dead._ "Yeah, dude, fine. Let's eat."

"Joe? Come on, wake up." Frank brushed a soaked strand of blonde hair off his brother's forehead. "Joe? It's been an hour, time to wakey wakey..."

"What?" The word was garbled with sleep, but the agitated twisting beneath the blanket stopped.

"That's it. Wake up." Frank didn't like the frightened distance in Joe's stare. "You alright?"

"Yeah... of course."Joe stretched, frowning when his toes collided with padded fabric. Not his bed then. Come to think of it, his bed would have had Vanessa in it, which was a far sight more appealing than Frank next to it. This situation might actually merit opening his eyes. "Wait... Did you just say wakey wakey?"

Frank laughed. "Yes. You always hated that when Aunt Gertrude said it, so I figured you'd wake up to tell me to knock it off if nothing else. You awake now?"

"Depends. Do I have to eat any more sludge?"

"Sludge? You lost me on the one."

"The squash soup you brought me."

"I may have some delusional beliefs here and there, but I know better than to think I could get you to eat squash soup, Joe. Your whole diet consists of 'do you want fries with that?'" Frank shifted, holding out a small cup. "I did bring you some punch from the buffet."

Joe swallowed a few gulps, uneasy and not sure why. "So there really wasn't any soup?"

"Nope. If you're hungry, I can probably scrounge something..."

"Nah, I'm definitely not hungry. Just dreaming again, I guess. I thought... you were going to, ah... never mind."

"Am I going to like this one more or less than getting shot in the army?" Frank raised an eyebrow, gauging Joe's mood. Something was still wrong. Something beyond a fall down some stairs.

"Let's go with less." Joe's fingers laced in his hair, eyes suddenly squeezed tight. "Uh... ow. This headache can go away about any time now. How soon is Dr. Bates due back anyway?"

The wary expression on the elder Hardy's face tripled. "Back from where?"

"From whatever he's doing with the rest of the guests. You can't tell me he's going to patch up my head and then miss an opportunity to lecture me about it every hour or two?"

"He's not here, Joe. Dad and I carried you in here after she clonked you with that vase and Vanessa bandaged your head." Frank leaned in for a closer look. "You're still pretty pale."

"It's just a headache. Frank, Vanessa the one's that not here. She got sick on candy and I had to take her back home, remember? And 'she' who hit me on the head?"

"She didn't exactly introduce herself on the way by. Our thief."

"Thief?"

"She must have hit you harder than I thought. You know, the woman in the dress and wings. You charged up the stairs at her right as she finished cutting the painting on the landing out of its frame, and she grabbed a vase off the table there and walloped you before you could reach her. Knocked you right down the steps again. I saw the whole thing, but I was too far away to catch her."

Joe waited a long time to answer, unable to reconcile the story with his memory. Finally he decided on something neutral. "I don't remember that."

"I'm not surprised." Frank shrugged and then rose to pace the carpet. "At least we can get the painting back, but I would have preferred to catch the ugly witch."

"Witch? You don't typically call the suspects names, Frank. You're the one that's always after me to be professional."

"No one's around to hear me. Besides, she hit my brother with a giant enamel urn. I'm entitled." Frank peered at the mantle clock. "I better hurry up if I'm going to lure Vanessa out of the ballroom to babysit you and still meet our winged thief on time. It's almost three."

"Wait. Why are you meeting her at all?"

Frank had the distinct look of someone manufacturing an answer out of one part creative writing class and two parts tall tale contest, all with a pinch of blarney. "She left a note. I'm to meet her behind the barn at three a.m. and she'll make her demands for the painting's return."

Joe blanched, a considerable feat given his already parchment hued skin. "None of this makes sense."

"Sure it does."

"No, it doesn't. One, Vanessa's not here. Two, if she was, she wouldn't go off dancing with me knocked unconscious in the next room. Three, if some chick stole that big painting, she'd sell it, not make ransom demands. Four, if she really does want to meet you at three, she either wants to capture something else of value, namely you, or she wants to eliminate a witness, so going alone is right up there with poking a sleeping bear on the Einstein smartness scale. You are more than bright enough to know all of that. And five, you said she hit me on the way up the stairs, but the knot's on the back of my head. You never lie to me, Frank. Never. Now what aren't you telling me?"

Frank froze, the concoction and rejection of progressively more outlandish explanations visibly churning in the dark eyes. Eventually he melted back into the chair beside Joe's makeshift bed. "I'm sorry, but I have to ... for everybody. The masquerade... it's not a lie now... Don't ask me, please don't ask me... You know already... pretend you don't..."

Joe closed his eyes, hopelessly attempting to rearrange the jumble of words into something approaching coherent meaning. The nightmares came swirling back, the sound of a shot thumping in time with his headache. Finding his older sibling bleeding amongst the soldier's of Gates' army transformed into sprinting desperately through the woods, gun raised in a hand that was his own. Blood dribbling down Frank's chest, wet and warm...

"Sunlight child, his battle lost, afraid to pay the saving's cost."

The whisper came from immediately beside him, from the chair Frank was occupying, but the pitch was far too high. Joe held his breath, debating risking a look.

 _Bribe paid, our absence bought,_

 _His sundered form cannot be sought._

Joe reluctantly cracked an eye. The elegant chair was gone, replaced by a young woman. Sort of. The grey folds of her classical single shouldered gown blended into the dove grey of her skin, fine features framed by stone waves somehow shaded into the color of wheat. The curve of sculpted wings was barely visible over narrow shoulders, her entire form a mere five feet in length. The angel from the crypt.

Forcing down incredulous disbelief, Joe spoke. "Did you, uh, say something?" _And if you did, could you stop, because this is getting far too strange..._

"He needs you and time is short, Joseph."

"I don't understand." _Yeah, I do... I've gone insane. Clearly the simplest explanation._

"You will." She looked up from her folded hands, familiar grey-blue eyes meeting his. "You have everything you need."

"Nessa?"

"No, love. Finish your soup."

"Ok, so I'm still asleep. Definitely still asleep. Frank? FRANK!? You promised Bates to wake me up every two hours and you better get in here and do it! Now! FRAAAANK!?"


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

Joe watched Frank circle the room, checking the clock repetitively. "Almost time to meet wing girl, huh?"

"Yeah, I want a few minutes to scout around."

 _So, I'm still asleep... Well, it's Halloween. Couldn't be a better night for a nightmare. May as well go with it._

Frank walked to the dining table, turning his back to shield Joe's view. The deep breath didn't steady him quite as much as he'd hoped. He undid the cufflinks he'd borrowed from their father to hold the old fashioned shirt, laying them on the polished surface, quickly followed by his wallet and the musket. He slid a knife from his belt, the only portion of his costume that was a genuine antique. He hesitated a moment before slipping a silver band from his right hand. He hadn't taken it off in over a year. He pressed his palms against the cool wood, head bowed for a moment before whispering to himself. "They're just things Frank, leave them. Just stuff..."

"You don't have to go anywhere." Joe hesitated, then plowed onward, his brother's comment unheard. "Do you, uh, do you think anyone stole those paintings we were supposed to be watching?" _Was I imagining that whole conversation or did we really have it?_

Frank shrugged. "I didn't know you were awake again. Unless someone snuck a construction crane past me those paintings are right where we left them. The things are huge. Why'd you ask? I think between falling down the stairs and all the dreaming you've been doing, you've gotten one hundred percent confused, Joe. Of course, that's only three percent more than usual, so it should be fine."

"Very funny."

"I thought so."

"I'm not confused about how worried you are, though. Why don't you tell me what's actually going on?"

Frank turned toward Joe again, a long sigh marking his capitulation. "I'm not sure I know what's going on. I do know that Dad didn't exactly step in that hole. More like he made it somehow, and when he did, he disturbed something under that crypt. Something that should never see the light of day, something evil and ancient and... hungry. Something I can banish back to the depths."

"There's a lot of the middle of that story you seem to be leaving out, Frank."

"Yeah, well, not a lot of time to work with, you know?"

"Try the short version."

"You won't believe me."

"You had me spend my evening looking for someone with wings and then I had pair of Technicolor nightmares. I'm fairly open to odd explanations at the moment."

"Did you really look at that big painting on the stairs?" The question didn't seem pertinent, but Frank's searching gaze suggested it was.

"The one of those keres? Yeah. It's ugly."

"They were ugly coming out of that crypt, too." Frank waited for a derisive laugh, but it didn't come. "You believe me?"

"That might be pushing it, but I believe you believe it."

The tiny smile Frank offered seemed weary. "That sounds disturbingly like a bad re-do of who's on first. Does your head feel good enough to walk around a minute? I think I can convince you."

"Sure."

Frank crept from the dining room, Joe silently tracing his footsteps. He paused outside the ballroom and pressed the door open a few inches, motioning at Joe to peek through the crack.

Joe almost instantly yanked the door closed, swallowing hard a half dozen times before easing it open again. Chaos oozed from every inch of the room beyond.

The guests had arrived dressed as the ghosts of eighteenth century soldiers; mummies, vampires, a werewolf or two. The attire was extraordinarily well done, but even so, no one older than about five would have mistaken the costumed players for the real thing. Assuming, of course, one was inclined to believe the term 'real thing' could apply to a menagerie of creatures of the night.

Now, though, the door was a portal to a twisted vision of horror. The moans of ghostly forms blended with anguished cries as the monsters they'd become turned on one another, long dead soldiers drawing aim on friend and foe alike, crimson dripping from bared throats, the snarling of the wolves overriding the deadly cacophony. The smell of iron tinged blood and rotten flesh wafted in a nearly visible haze, the stench assaulting Joe's stomach.

Frank slipped a hand past his brother's shoulder, once again closing the door. "Help me barricade this?"

Joe shook his head to clear a growing stupor, unable to produce a sound. Wordlessly he found himself shoving a variety of furniture in front of the ballroom entrance.

"Understand now?" Frank led Joe back to the dining room that was now minus one large table. "Bates isn't dressed as a vampire any more, he is one. Everyone's changing."

"We're not. This is nuts, Frank." Joe absently rolled his shoulder, a dull throbbing there distracting him from the conversation.

"You sure about that?" Frank brushed over the torn fabric of the colonial shirt his brother wore. "We decided bayonet, right?"

Joe flinched when his own fingers found the rip, coming away slick and wet. "No. Not possible. I fell down the stairs. I did not get gored by a bayonet in a battle that ended over two hundred years ago. I'm still asleep, aren't I? I really need for it to be morning, cause I have to tell you Frank, this whole thing left weird on the fast track for the local asylum some time back. I keep having dreams and you keep ending up dead in them. I'm probably dreaming now."

"If there was a way to be dreaming while moving furniture, I'd have found it before that last apartment move of Biff's. You're awake. As for the ending up dead part... ah... I'd rather not, but if that means everyone else is in the clear, then... I don't see where I have much choice."

"I'll go with you."

The shaking of Frank's head was almost violent. "You're hurt and I'm what she's after."

Joe frowned. "How do you know?"

"I went out to the cemetery looking for anyone lagging outside. What I found were the keres, shrieking at me - or rather at Dad, but apparently furious centuries old spirits can't tell the difference of a decade or two on us mere mortals. They think I opened the breach at the crypt. Anyway, I have until three a.m. to hand myself over. After that, the breach doesn't seal, everyone remains the monster they've become, and the keres remain free after tonight ends."

"You can't go surrender yourself to some crazy evil spirit that feeds on dying soldiers. Besides, you aren't her type."

"Not everybody prefers the blue eyed blond look, Joe."

"No, just the one's with good taste." Joe's voice didn't hold a trace of humor in spite of the words. "Although I meant you aren't dying."

A soft sound somewhere between a huff and choking slipped out. "Not yet anyway ."

Joe jerked his head up at that, the image from his last dream of warm blood on Frank's chest mingling with the red slick currently wandering its way down his own shoulder. The ghostly pallor painted onto Frank's face at the beginning of the evening was apparently no longer purely cosmetic. "Then let me go with you."

"No, I'm going and you're not, there isn't another way. Do I need to conk you over the head again to keep you from following me? Rather that wasn't my last memory of taking care of my little brother." He said it half as a joke, but they both knew it wasn't.

"No. I'll stay here."

"Can I get a promise on that?"

"Yeah, promise."

Frank locked his gaze with Joe's searching for anything amiss. Joe had said Frank didn't lie to him. The opposite was equally true and there was no trace of duplicity in the blue eyes now. Joe would stay.

"Keres don't stick around and they don't attack anyone who isn't interfering with their claim, so everything will definitely be safe by dawn. Don't come looking for me after, ok? Go home to Vanessa."

Frank's voice wavered on the last and Joe didn't even attempt to answer, closing the distance between them and pulling his brother into a fierce hug. "You can't know all that. You didn't even know what those women in the black wings were when we arrived tonight. You can't let them kill you on the assumption that puts everything else right by morning."

"If it keeps you safe I can." It was Frank that finally pushed away, holding Joe at arm's length and hoping he would see more than simple words could convey. "I read your invitation. Take another look at it yourself, ok? Everything's there, but I really have to go now... so... ah... goodbye."

Joe blinked furiously, fooling neither himself nor Frank. "I'll read it. At least try to come back here?"

"I wish I could. Take care of yourself." With that Frank dropped his hands to his sides and walked out the door, determined to resist a glance backward.

Joe followed him as far as the door outside, staring long seconds at the blurred silhouette of his brother, the earlier raindrops having morphed into a deluge that blew in against him.

 _First time I ever truly lied to him. So keres won't attack if you don't interfere. Wait, why am I assuming they attack at all... course then, what else exactly would they do?_ Joe retreated to the dining room and yanked the long gun from below his divan, ignoring the increasingly desperate noises emanating from the locked room across the foyer. On impulse he picked up the blade and musket Frank had discarded as well. He steadied the earlier shaking of his hands, stopped the sweating palms, dried the trickle of water snaking down his cheek that was surely rain. A quiet determination replaced all of those, fueled by anger at the bizarre evening that had so quickly turned his nightmare into a reality. Jamming Frank's silver ring on his own finger, Joe jogged out into the storm. _Fair warning, keres, 'cause I sure as hell plan on interfering…._


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

 _I'm so cold…_

Frank walked at the edge of the cemetery, rain battering the thin linen shirt and somewhat heavier wool pants, pooling within his boots. The wind cut through the sodden layers, chilling him to the bone. _Really wish Gabriel Hammonds hadn't gotten himself shot… cause it's starting to hurt like the dickens..._

" _Fennnnton."_ A nasal voice hissed inside his head, quite separate from the internal sound of his own thoughts.

 _So now my imagination's joined the party. Perfect, because Joe imagining something vile every three minutes wasn't enough._ Frank cocked his ear slightly, making sure there really wasn't anyone else on the dark road who could have spoken. Not like it mattered. No sane human would be out in the clatter of this storm, and if it wasn't human, well, that was rather the root of the problem, wasn't it? The lightning chose that moment to split the sky, illuminating the end of the gravel pathway. His foot shifted slightly sideways as he stepped off into the quagmire of the dirt, sucking squelch at his boot lost in the deafening crack of thunder. Quarter mile to the barn from here.

" _Fennnn-ton."_ Still a woman's voice this time, but lower.

" _Fenton?"_ The nasal one was back.

" _You listening Hardy?"_ A gruffer tone, clearly amused. _"Ah, you're the son, not the father. Delightful... younger meat..."_

Another lightning strike again revealed only the sideways blowing of the rain, leaves and sticks whipped along in its wake.

" _Frank?"_

" _Fraannnnk."_

" _Har-dyyyy."_

" _We're waiting."_

" _Keep walking, son."_

" _Hurry."_

" _Quick-quick."_

" _We can't wait much longer."_

" _Are you good boy?"_

" _Do you ever scream?"_

" _Fraaaannnk. Hurry."_

" _How do you taste?"_

 _"Maybe we'll know soon."_

" _Come on, one little scream? Pleeeasse, I know you can."_

" _Yeah, I wanna hear."_

" _Me too."_

" _Me too. Do it."_

" _Let's hear it, Frank. Awwh, not even a sniffle?"_

" _Do it."_

" _Now."_

" _Come on."_

" _Do it."_

"SHUT UP." Frank shouted into the night at the dozens of taunting voices swirling around him, uncertain if they came from his mind or somewhere else entirely. He kept his feet moving. This wasn't going to stop. _Ten minutes of three. Wonder if keres just like to run early or Hades hasn't managed to snag a decent watch maker..._

" _Go ahead and let out a few good yells while you can, Frank."_

Frank felt an icy finger trace down the bones of his spine, but a glance over his shoulder confirmed no one was there. "I'm not impressed by a few spooky taunts."

" _More than taunts, child. We're waiting for you, won't be long now."_ The hot breath of the voice blew in Frank's ear. _"Waiting for your brother, too."_

The bravery drained from Frank's tone instantly. "What?"

" _Joseph. Always wonderful to pull some of the light into the darkness."_

"Stay away from my brother. I agreed to your price to end this insanity and Joe wasn't part of the deal." Frank thought of the promise he'd extracted from Joe to stay in the mansion. He'd read the invitation poem four dozen times. Frank was the dying soldier, the natural prey of the keres for lack of a better label, and he was the one that had disturbed the crypt sealing them in. Well, ok, so that part wasn't precisely true, but even now that the voices seemed to have discovered that he and Fenton weren't one and same, it still didn't involve Joe. As long as his sibling stayed put, he should be safe.

" _Thinking we can't get to him, Frank? We don't have to. He's coming to us."_ A tinge of laughter came through Frank's mind along with the words.

 _No, he won't. He wouldn't. No._ "Joe won't come here. He promised."

" _He lied to you."_

"Joe doesn't lie to me _." Well, except when he's trying to protect me from something and we both know the lie for what it is._

" _You're wrong_." The voices were much stronger now. Closer.

Frank's stomach flipped in an uneasy roll as he admitted Joe would never abandon him. Joe hadn't fought Frank on coming here. Maybe because he was going to come too? The sound of the imagined shot ricocheted off Frank's heart.

" _I can see what you're thinking there, Hardy. You've had your last private thought, from now until forever your soul's an open playground. The infamously private Frank with his walls bulldozed to the ground. How long until little brother self destructs without you around? He won't attempt to function alone. He'll be here, and we'll have you both."_

"He has Vanessa and our parents. He'll be ok." Frank shook his head as he took the last steps to the center of the barnyard, the storm alternately lighting ominous shadows and plunging him into darkness. The rustle of as yet unseen wings began to overpower the whispers in his mind.

" _Still don't believe us, boy?"_

"You get me, that's it. I'm all the payment you're due." Frank turned in a circle, aware of the steady approach of shadows, obsidian blotches coalescing from the duller black of the storm.

" _Seems it's three, and we don't want to distract you. Being torn apart is an exquisite experience, have to let you savor it. Make sure you don't miss that last look at Joe though, ok? It's going to be a heck of a surprise."_

The red glow of eyes joined the feminine shaped shadows, a ring slowly forming in the trees around the stable. A larger shadow slipped behind one of the thicker trunks _. No. No, no, no, I'm not ready..._

Joe swiped at his eyes, banishing the unbidden mental images of his brother voluntarily walking into a deadly trap. The rain continued to slap at him, but he couldn't recall the last several minutes. How long had he wasted, dozing on his feet?

He slipped out of the mansion, forcing himself to ignore the pleas spilling out from the ballroom. Even the smell had escaped into the surrounding air, a mix of cigar ashes and wet dog fur blended with essence of slaughterhouse. He couldn't think of those within. If the poem actually meant anything, they'd return to normal come morning, except for Frank.

 _False guises, the dark twists true, Fiends transformed, weak spirit slew. Daybreak steals brief death to life, But for that now owned by Strife._

Ten minutes later and he was on a ridge above the barn, aware of the graveyard out of sight down the opposite side. A squint through the downpour at the dirt path far below him revealed a walking figure approaching the stable that could only be Frank. _Crap, this is cutting it close._

Joe started down the sloped embankment, trying to watch treacherous terrain and hurry at the same time. He knew he was snapping branches as he went, but the rain covered the noise. Halfway down his leg gave way, twisting as the foot slipped under a root and sent him crashing to the ground.

Guuhhk. Joe lifted his face from the mud, spitting out a mouthful. A sharp insistent throb in his calf and ankle banished the fog from his brain, instantly ushering him back to awareness of just why he was laying on the ground in the dark in the middle of a monsoon. Frank. Pushing to all fours, Joe raised his eyes back to the clearing below, praying the lapse in awareness had been a brief one.

Frank was standing in the center, rotating a slow circle. Joe saw nothing around him, but Frank's posture telegraphed that he certainly did. The wary, coiled stance was heartbreakingly familiar, the lax, outturned palms were not. He couldn't recall Frank making a gesture of surrender before in his life.

Knowing he was out of time, Joe tried to stand, cursing when his left leg wouldn't hold his full weight. _Great. Like this wasn't going to be hard enough already_. He slid the remaining thirty feet of the bank on his rump, ducking behind the trunk of a thick pine at the bottom and levering himself upright. _Least Frank didn't see me._

Detaching himself as best he could from the horror of it, Joe intentionally recalled his dream from earlier. His current position had better cover than anything he'd seen then, but the colonial long gun was disturbingly in his hand either way. He'd taken Frank's discarded musket from the mansion as well; neither gun a prop any longer. He couldn't just shoot someone, could he? Yes, it was to defend Frank, and yes, he'd thought could do anything for that, but shooting someone in needed defense generally didn't mean slinking around behind trees without giving them a chance to surrender to arrest. Of course, generally the someone he'd be shooting at would be a some _one_ not some _thing_. _Nightmare, Joe... the rules are different..._

 _But can I do it even if I'm willing? I don't know how many keres there are, I'm armed with a pair of antique guns I don't know how to use... Then again, maybe I do. Con became a mummy, Dr. Bates is a vampire, Frank's dying from a fatal wound received by somebody else two centuries ago... and now my shoulder's bleeding from a bayonet stabbing. If I'm becoming my character, and he's an eighteenth century sharp shooter, then perhaps I do know how to use these guns. I think I'm about to find out._

Unfortunately, to get close enough to see the keres, he was going to have make himself a target. He'd have to rely on the storm, the dark, and the fact that his brother was a wee bit preoccupied with the whole death thing to keep Frank from spotting him too soon.

Somewhere in the last few years, Joe had come to a surprising revelation. He was an extraordinarily good shot. He'd spent his childhood feeling incompetent on the matter as Frank out performed him four times out of five at target practice, never considering that Frank was older. When you know you're only the second best marksman in the house, it takes a while to sink in that you might also be the second best marksman for miles around. And that skill was about to get a serious test.

The unrelenting movie in his head replayed, as did snippets of conversation that he couldn't identify as originating in wakefulness or sleep.

... _The dead unfit to end our fast. Soul between, ours to take..._

 _...Choice to fight, dooms to pyre..._

 _...Sunlight child, his battle lost, Afraid to pay the saving's cost. Fearless of enemy, bravery's liar, Choice to fight, dooms to pyre..._

 _...Bribe paid, our absence bought, His sundered form cannot be sought..._

 _"I can save him, Joe, but only if you hurry."_

Somehow he thought the lost battle referred to him, not Frank, but what was it he was afraid to pay? He was already committed to opening fire at some winged monstrosities, already committed to risking his own life to do it. _Come to think of it, maybe I should just be committed in general... to the nearest mental facility available. No, can't think like that. Frank's not going to fight this time. I thought it was my job to keep him alive, but maybe that's not true. It's my job to keep him literally in one piece. That's what all this means. Frank can't be saved at daybreak if his body doesn't exist... I hate poetry interpretation... never sure if I'm right... I better be this time..._

For now, Frank was still Gabriel, and Gabriel was still dying in the next five minutes. He was just doing it in one piece.

He was far enough away that his first shot at a keres would have to be blind, but it didn't particularly matter if he hit one as long as he distracted her. Given their darling dispositions, shouldn't be too hard. He raised the long rifle to his shoulder, weight on his right leg, left toe tapping the ground for balance, and focused his stare on his brother. Surely Frank would flinch at their approach, giving Joe something to aim at until he could get closer.

Except that he didn't. Joe never saw the first keres to reach Frank, the spirit latching on to his brother's hand with a snap audible even over the pelting rain. The bite elicited a staccato scream from Frank and a gagging shudder from Joe, but the first bullet grazed her back.

Finally close enough to join the battle for real, Joe hurriedly scanned the encircling pack, counting nine of the winged forms in the instant before they sprung _,_ praying others weren't lurking the glowing red eyes contrasted enough with the black storm-drenched night for him to be certain of a target. Fortunately the crimson orbs also reminded him that his quarry was far from human. _Nine shots into glowing red eyes to get off before they can shred him. Please let me do this. Please…._

Anticipating the keres would attack him as well, Joe was able to stay lateral of an initial charge, simultaneously working the bolt and dropping the one that had already bitten Frank, a feral grunt leaving Joe's lips as one set of the burning embers went dark. He dropped a second entering the clearing straight opposite him, expending a third round as he limped closer, rapidly shifting to Frank's musket as the distance lessened. A musket wasn't quite as accurate, but it was faster to reload.

Keres numbers three and four broke off to charge him as he'd hoped, giving him a clear shot at their eyes. The third spirit fell with the first retort of the musket, but his next shot went high, harmlessly skittering off the enraged woman's wing as a peal of thunder startled his aim _. Crud, Joe, 'bout to get eaten by ancient war goddesses and you let thunder scare you?_

The wings loomed in front of him, blocking his view of the remaining five creatures closing the gap on Frank at a run. Joe repositioned his aim for the quickly approaching spirit, but she struck before he could shoot, long slivers of teeth sinking into the junction between his neck and left shoulder. The inevitable yell loosed into the night was lost in the deafening noise of the storm, as Joe wriggled his opposite arm between his chest and a feathered appendage even as she knocked him backward, firing a round point blank against her heaving ribcage.

Striking the fiend anywhere other than an eye wasn't going to kill her, but the stinging pain in her chest caused the keres to rear her head away from Joe, jaws raising blessedly with a mouthful composed primarily of only linen and leather. Joe forced his right arm into an awkward horizontal angle across his own chest, another slug embedding itself in a fading iris.

Heaving the carcass off himself, Joe struggled back to his feet, blood trickling down his chest and left arm. His vision took a second to refocus on his brother and when he did his heart sank into his toes. Two of the keres had descended, leaving Frank sitting on the earth, one arm rigidly extended behind him trying to keep the beating wings from forcing him the rest of the way down, the other hopelessly defending his face.

One of the snarling creatures furiously shook the remnants of a ripped shirt, lowering her head again as she spat it out, clamping fangs this time around Frank's forearm. _No, can't happen this way. Can't . Please, I'm so close, please, please…please…._

Joe fired as quickly as he could at both keres, willing the broadside strikes to make them look up at him as he continued to bridge the distance to his brother. One did, collapsing as Joe's seventh bullet found its mark. He had nine shots left, and four more keres. Those odds weren't insurmountable , even with the necessity of shooting in the air simply to get the vile things to turn his way. A glancing shot and a killing blow apiece, with a bullet to spare. But there was no time.

That was obvious as the spirit attached to Frank's arm ignored Joe completely, yanking the limb over the elder brother's head even as she pinned his shoulders to the ground. Earlier capitulatory gesture notwithstanding, Frank's booted feet scrabbled in the slick mud, frantically trying to push backward as he craned his neck off the soil. He'd heard the shots by now of course, but could see little beyond the snarling jaws, a haze of pain blurring his sight. The pealing of skin from muscle was unbearable; the snap of the bone in his arm sent a wave of helpless nausea through him, testing his determination not to fight. The sooner it was over, the sooner Joe and everyone else were safe. The spirits could claim only him, unless Joe persisted in including himself in the carnage.

Of the remaining keres, only one turned Joe's way, dispatched even as the other two joined their sister in tearing at Frank. Joe stumbled again as he desperately struggled toward his fallen brother, rolling through the fall and ending up standing again, ignoring the heat lancing through arm and ankle at the maneuver. He was within ten yards of Frank now, and he was still going to fail. The ebony forms were mere seconds from shredding the downed man. He had time for perhaps one more shot before that happened, and eliminating one of the three remaining sister-fiends wasn't going to matter.

The chilled wet metal of the antique blade still pressed at the small of his back, but that thought was equally useless. Even if he could somehow get the knife to Frank in time, his injured brother wouldn't use it.

The heightened reflexes of the night were fleeing from Joe, a rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him as the worthless ideas swirled in his mind.

 _So close. Oh no. No. No, no, no, no. I'm sorry Frank. So sorry. No. NO!_

He sank into the muck on his knees, grief flooding over him _. So close._

Forcing his eyes back to the imminent carnage, he prayed he could lock eyes just once with his brother. Frank would read the apology there, know Joe had tried. Know Joe loved him….

Frank felt the sapphire eyes upon him, realizing in his slowing breaths that Joe had come after all. Waves of pain confused him, but that much he could process. _Joe's here. Just like they said. No, not like that. They can't get him. I'm not letting that happen._ He fought to raise his head, connecting with his brother's eyes, closing out the hot breath against his throat, the searing hurt in his body , silently saying goodbye once more. An awful, betrayed lurch rattled his soul when Joe's face hardened into something unrecognizable, the long arms aiming Frank's gun once more.

The spark that arced through Joe when he actually managed to hold that pain filled brown gaze was the last thing he expected. Every thought drained from him save one.

 _Keres won't eat dead meat_. _That's what the poem was trying to tell me. That's what I'm afraid to do._

Joe forced a deep breath in and out, steadying his aim and his resolve. The single shot rang out as the lightning flashed, providing Joe a perfect view as his brother's body snapped back, blood rimming a bullet hole even as Frank collapsed back to the earth once more.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

The convulsive retching stopped, Joe wanting nothing more than to collapse to rest of the way into the mud. He'd done it. He'd killed Frank. _Oh God._ The squelching tug at his forearms invited him to sink into the ground, let the remaining keres absolve him from the enormity of what he'd done.

The spirits slinked about Frank for a moment, disappointed whimpers escaping their throats. The prize they'd been waiting to claim no longer drew breath. _The dead unfit..._

Their confusion slowed the transfer of their fury to Joe, brain capacities slowly accepting that the younger Hardy might be injured, but he was clearly among the living.

In the end it was their violence that ironically saved Joe, unwanted survival instinct ending his detachment and forcing him back into the fight. The first of the women launched at him just as Joe tried to stand, causing her to overshoot her intended grip on the bowed neck and instead skitter claws down his exposed back. The surprised spirit thumped onto the ground behind Joe, rearing her head just in time to meet the bullet he'd spun to fire.

The winged creature crumpled, but the spin cost Joe his balance allowing the other to bear him back to the ground _. Why aren't they gone? Frank's g-gone._ The nearer shadow lunged in toward his exposed throat; the younger brother instinctively dipping his chin to minimize the target. He thrust his weaker left arm under the snapping teeth, prying her head upward, straining to reposition his gun. Clawed nails raked across his previously bitten shoulder, hurt sharpening his attention. He fired again, reducing the number to one.

The last of the keres circled Joe, iridescent obsidian wings outstretched, almost wary without her sisters.

"Afraid now?" Joe hissed the words between clenched teeth, desperate to be rid of her and get to his brother. He struggled to reload the musket, finally releasing a last shot. "You should be."

The moment she exhaled a last breath, the forms of all the spirits began to fade, carcasses dimming into translucent grey shadows and then dissolving into the dirt. Livid red eyes lingered a second longer, disembodied accusing stares fixed on Joe before they sank into the earth.

Joe rolled to his hands and knees, grief too heavy to push himself up any further. No matter as long as he could crawl to Frank. He stopped a few feet away, almost afraid to touch the mangled still form. Something nudged him to extend shaking fingers to Frank's neck, resting against a pulse that wasn't there.

The focus of the fight left him once more, shuddering breaths wracking his frame as he rocked back to sit on the ground, pulling his brother's corpse against his chest. Uninjured right arm wrapped tight around him, left fingers twining in the short dark hair to support the lolling head.

 _I did this. I killed you. You trusted me and instead I killed you. I thought by morning you'd be dead or I'd be a murderer. How could it have come to both? I sorry, I'm so very, very sorry..._

She watched from the trees, realizing Joe remained unaware of her presence. Intruding seemed cruel, perhaps even vulgar, but she wasn't sure how much more Joe could take. How much more she could take.

"Joe?" Her approach was silent, the word nearly so. "Joseph?"

A tightening of his jaw was the only sign he might have heard her.

"Joseph?"

He lifted his forehead from where it rested against Frank's hair. Solitary tear track on his cheek, he lifted empty eyes to hers, unseeing. "Nessa? That you?" _Tell me I wasn't too late, Frank. I figured it out too late, let the keres hurt you. She can't help you now. You're gone. G-gone, and it's my fault. All my fault, all of it….._

"Joe?" Her palm on his face went unnoticed. He didn't move until her fingers strayed lower, back of her hand grazing over the bruise on Frank's jaw. The reaction to that was instantaneous, Joe suddenly rolling sideways to place himself between them, half covering Frank's body with his own.

"Don't. touch. him." The voice was low, fierce. She wasn't Vanessa. She couldn't have Frank.

"Joe!" She retreated a step, hands open and spread wide, grey dress trailing in the churned mud. She froze until she was certain he had truly seen her this time. "Joe? You have to let me look at him."

Slowly he sat back up, again propping Frank against him before offering her a single clipped nod. The living sculpture from the crypt. He wasn't quite willing to label her an angel.

She dropped to her knees, fingers ghosting over Joe's bloodied shoulder before turning her attention to the dead man at her feet. His skin was already taking on a dulled yellow cast, but he was still warm beneath the soft hand that sought out his injuries. The torn skin from his left hand now paled in comparison to the crooked bone twisting his right forearm, the deep gouges crisscrossing the bare chest. A rip in his pants offered a glimpse of teeth marks in his thigh. She frowned as she finally turned to the bullet hole.

"I too late, wasn't I?" Joe closed his eyes, dreading her answer.

"W-what?" She drew a quick breath at the evident pain in his voice. "No, Joe. Not too late. I … I just" She forcibly reminded herself that the brothers didn't know her although she knew them. "I'm just sorry, that's all."

"Then you can…?" He held his breath, needing the reassurance as everything within him teetered on the brink, one path cautiously trying to hope, the other a despair that would eventually solidify his soul to stone.

"Yes. Not yet, but yes." She risked a small smile as blinked away a few tears of her own. "We need to get him out of here. I'll get his feet."

"No!" Joe grabbed her wrist before she could slide her arm below Frank, then released it just as quickly, trying to rein in a resurgent protectiveness he didn't quite understand. "Sorry. I got him though, ok?"

"Sure Joe. It's ok." She watched as Joe struggled to balance his brother against his uninjured shoulder, standing slowly as he remembered he'd have to keep all the weight on his right leg. Saw his eyes stray to the uphill climb through the trees to the house. "Maybe I could help at least a little?"

"Uh, yeah." He was grateful she accepted his need to be the one to carry Frank, even when it was obvious he couldn't. Not up that bank anyway. He tried to shift Frank's torso against his own, but gave up with a grunt.

She nodded, accepting half Frank's weight as tactfully as she could.

Long minutes later Joe collapsed back on the divan, tugging Frank's body with him. In spite of the hope the ah, whatever she was, offered, the sensation of holding the cooling corpse threatened to overwhelm him.

He glared at the room they'd left such a short time ago, limp form in his arms. It felt like longer. Before was on the other side of a gaping divide that he knew would be there forever, no matter the outcome of this night. An hour ago was on the other side of before Frank died. Before Joe killed him.

"So how do we do this?" His free hand plowed through his hair. His mind wouldn't leave what it would feel like to surrender yourself to agents of Hades only to look up in time to see your own brother fire the shot that kills you. "Please…" The tremors he'd avoided for hours fought their way to the surface for an instant as he hung his head.

She knelt beside Joe, a hand resting on his knees. "Intentionally or not, this land is tied to the men who died violently here and all of you opened that up when you brought the soldiers back to life."

"But we didn't. It's just costumes."

"It still looked that way to the keres, apparently, and then your father opened a conduit." Her hands moved to cup his face, a tenderness in her countenance that undermined her earlier words. She hadn't adopted Vanessa's eyes and voice by chance. "Go close it while I see to Frank."

"I'm supposed to leave him like this?" Joe waited, flinching when he saw her nod. "Can you stay with him?"

She hesitated, knowing he was reluctant to go. "I can. Leave him with me."

 _Leave him with me._ This was hard, harder than anything other than aiming that gun at his brother and pulling the trigger. He fingered the edge of the stained waistcoat, reluctantly brushing over the mottled gray skin. "I'll be right back, Frank, I swear." He choked back everything else he wanted to say, eyes closed.

####

"Mary, Mary won't you help this man

Take his troubled soul into your hands

Cause all this dyin', it ain't meant to be

Lord if it is please won't you come for me

Here I go out to St. Joseph's

Watchin' Georgia pass me by

I had a friend come up and get me

Made him drive so I could cry"

#####

'Hey all you fellow insomniacs out there that's Curnutte and Maher from back in '91 with Mary, Mary. It's 4:52am and I for one am headed for another meeting with my good friend Mr. Coffee. I'll be right back with some CCR after these fine messages from quisinart…'

Joe cranked the radio up another notch, the fatigue of the night encroaching on the edge of his vision. It wasn't far to the gate house at the entrance to estate, but he'd still opted to take his car to collect the shovels from storage there. He didn't want to be gone any longer than absolutely necessary.

"Frank?"

Silence.

"Frank, you ok?"

A searing pain rocked through Joe's slumber, not from his physical state but from the realization that he'd just called out for his brother. His dead brother. The one he'd killed himself. _No, no, no, no, no,no,nononononoooooo….._

"FRANK!"

Joe's eyes shot open, the screaming in his mind giving way to the crunch of gravel and metal shearing against stone. Realizing the GTO was no longer moving, he let his head flop back on the seat, staring unseeing at the roof through clipped panting, willing the thumping in his head to subside.

The pounding against his ribs stilled to a more tolerable speed, allowing Joe to open the car door. His first try to climb out failed, leading to a more deliberate second attempt. Twisting a handful of linen pant leg into his left hand, he hoisted the leg out of the car, settling his boot in the pea sized stones before lurching the rest of the way out. He leaned heavily on the car, willing his stomach into acceptable behavior. He remembered he was driving when the dream started and being stopped when it ended. The actual stopping part, not so much. What happened?

He made his way around the front of the pontiac, discovering two things. First, although he had wrecked it, the damage was minimal, a wrinkled front quarter panel that left it completely drivable. Second, there was no need to drive anywhere. The single working headlight joined the early morning light to reveal what had halted the progress of the wayward vehicle. Joe had crashed into a tall cemetery headstone. He was back.

Joe grabbed the shovel from the back seat and scanned the tombstones, the carved letters fading from more than distance as his gaze traveled to the center. Clearly older that direction. Slipping among the stone ghosts of the graveyard, he easily spotted the mausoleum at the center. The white granite walls were roughened by decades of lichen, grime, and vines obscuring the archaic inscriptions, but the grey carved angel on top was not to be found. _Not like I don't know where she is._

Filling in the crevice in the ground behind the crypt occupied more time than hoped, the trench wider than it had been when Fenton stuck his foot in there. Finally, Joe scraped enough loose soil together to seal the earth, tamping it down with a myriad of thumps and stomps worthy of a percussive dance troop. Nothing else was coming through there. _Yeah, Stomp versus the underworld, live on tour..._

 _The headache's a little better._ Strange how your first thought can be so mundane when you're sprawled face up in graveyard earth just before sunrise. He hadn't meant to rest. Joe pushed himself up with one hand, blinking into the lightening sky. He had to get back into that dining room.

Even knowing Frank was there, the sight still stopped Joe in his tracks. A layer of ivory cloth spread over the stone tiled floor, held at each corner by a candle a foot in diameter, wicks softly flickering. Frank's corpse occupied the center, the same fabric covering him chest to knee. His skin was ghost pale, verging on silver blue, but every trace of an injury was gone.

Joe allowed his fingers to gingerly reach for the side of the still face, trembling over the unmarred skin of his neck. The bullet hole that Joe would see forever wasn't there.

"Joe?" Her whisper tentatively reached him. "You ok?"

He raised his bowed head, searching an incredibly familiar face. No stone angel stood sentinel over his brother any longer. Vanessa perched on the divan, long legs curled beneath the voluminous colonial gown.

"Nessa?" Joe reached out a hand, needing physical confirmation his wife truly sat beside him.

She saw the uncertainty there, the fluid brightness in the blue eyes. She lowered herself to the floor, palms on either side of Joe's face, and breathed a kiss across his cheek before recapturing his gaze, shuddering at the aching desperation etched there.

"It's okay, Joe. Everything's ok."


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

A faint gasp tapped at the edges of awareness, the sound coalescing into a huff and then a rasping wheeze, Joe petrified to draw a breath of his own as he listened for fear of impeding the soft flow of air. The wheeze settled into a rhythm, ever so slowly incorporating a flutter of dark eyelashes as the sky streaked violet and rose, the colors framed by the bubbled glass of the window.

"Frank!?" Joe's eyes flicked from the blue toes up to the tentative rise and fall of his brother's chest, mentally praying a soundless thank you. "Frank? Can you answer me?" His hands shook as he pressed fingers into his brother's neck, the fluttery beat there allowing him to breathe again. "Come on man, anything, let me know I'm not imagining things here, please?"

Very slowly the brown eyes blinked. "J-Joe….?"

 _I don't think he hears me yet…._ He gathered Frank against his chest, fearing the slackness within the circle of his arms. "It's okay, bro. I gotta ya. I gotta ya."

 _Is that him shaking, or me?_ Joe separated out the sensations one at a time; the panicked pounding of his own heart, the weaker beat of Frank's, the tiny puffs of breath ruffling the fringes of hair along his neck. Heartbeat by heartbeat one pattern slowed, the other steadied, gradually fusing, each strengthening the other. Even as belief that Frank lived finally seeped through Joe, the trembling grew. _Not sure that's either of us…_

The shaking intensified...

"Kid, come on, you've gotta wake up."

Joe slowly became aware of the hand shaking his shoulder and voices he couldn't identify. Older. Male. Not his father.

"That's it. Wake up."

"You think he's coming around?"

"Yeah, I think so. Help me lift on three."

Joe was flat on his back when curiosity eventually overpowered a searing headache, forcing his eyes open. A deeply grey sky met his vision. Dawn or dusk?

Allowing his gaze to wander a bit further he spotted the upper portion of a brownstone wall, a dark winged gargoyle perched at the corner. He knew that carved face, he'd always thought it looked strangely feminine. Thing gave him the creeps actually, but he seriously doubted his landlord would remove it on that basis.

"F-Frank..."

"You think that's him?" The voices continued talking around him as much as to him.

"Nah, wallet says his name is Joe. Joe Hardy."

"Are you Joe?"

"Yeah." _Pretty confused in general, but I think I'm right on that one... I'm outside my townhouse...I'm Joe._ "What happened?"

"Nobody saw it, but it looks like you fell down the front steps. One of the parents out trick or treating with their kids called it in." The voice had an owner now, a navy EMT uniform coming into focus.

The ground moved. No, not the ground. Joe realized he was on a stretcher about the same time the ambulance door closed behind him. "Don't need to go to the hospital."

A warm laugh met that announcement. "Nice try, Mr. Hardy, but based on the phone report, you've been out a good half hour. You should get yourself checked out and you need some stitches. Besides, your finger says you have somebody who's not going to be too impressed if you don't." The medic tapped lightly against Joe's wedding band.

"Vanessa... she's... she's out trick or treating." Joe's hand fumbled in the vicinity of his pocket, missing in the unfamiliar antique clothes. "My phone..."

"We already tried it, Joe. It must have smashed when you fell, because we can't get it to work. Is there someone I can call for you?"

Joe felt the ambulance pull away from the curb. "My wife's outside... uh... you could probably get my brother... Frank..."

"Joe? Mr. Hardy?" The medic frowned, not happy his patient was unconscious again. "At least I have a contact name now."

Frank rushed into the emergency room a half hour later, quickly following the desk clerk's directions to a room in the rear corner. He was about to enter when a youngish appearing doctor emerged.

"Are you seeing my brother, Joe Hardy? Can you tell me what happened?"

The doctor nodded, hesitating only a moment over the attire of the man in front of her. It looked like some sort of army uniform, but it was a few centuries out of date. Fortunately, the blood dribbled down the chest didn't appear to be real. "I'm Dr. Kerry. He fell down the stairs in front of his home. He has a few bumps and bruises, but the main concern is a concussion. I've already sutured a laceration on his scalp and told him he has to stay the night, which didn't seem to make me overwhelmingly popular."

Even in the current circumstances that brought a smile to Frank's face. "No, I'd imagine not. He's going to be ok?"

"He should be fine." The petite brunette paused, shaking her head slightly. "I take it you were both headed to a costume party?"

"I was there already actually, but yes."

"That may explain it. He's fairly confused and seems to have incorporated the plot of about ten bad Halloween movies into whatever he's thinking. If you're Frank, he's reasonably convinced he killed you. Until you walked in, he was about half way there to convincing me."

"Killed me? I'm pretty sure our parents passed rules against that one a long time ago. The confusion will clear up, though, right?"

"It should, but that is one of the reasons I want to keep him overnight. You can see him if you like. It's busy tonight, so it may be an hour or so before he gets moved to a room. He's been asking for his wife, too. Do you know how to reach her?'

"Yes, she's at her uncle's by now. I'll take care of it. Thanks, Dr. Kerry."

"You're welcome."

Frank made a call, then slipped into the glassed in room, sinking into the bedside chair when he saw Joe's eyes were closed.

"Frank?"

"Hey, hi Joe. I thought you were asleep. You ok?"

"I'm not asleep, the lights are just bright." Joe blinked under the florescent bulbs, needing to see his brother. "It's really still Halloween evening?"

"Yeah, Joe, it's just after nine. I called Vanessa, she should be here in a few minutes."

Joe nodded gingerly, obviously nursing a headache and stiff neck. "You're alright?"

Frank would have laughed but Joe's query sounded too anxiety ridden to permit that. "I'm fine, Joe. I didn't trip down a flight of stone stairs."

"I thought... I thought I..."

"You thought what?"

"Nothing. I had a nightmare, I think. There were these winged women, war goddesses really... and they escaped from Hades... Dad let them out. He didn't mean to, of course... but they thought you did it and they were going to kill you, but I couldn't let them and I shot them, which was okay I think since they weren't actually people but they were still winning, so I killed you so you wouldn't die and" Joe abruptly halted the tumble of words, not making sense even to himself. "Have you seen Con Riley tonight? Or Dr. Bates?"

Surprised at the bizarre recitation and seemingly unrelated question, Frank still managed to answer calmly. "Sure. They're both working at the haunted house."

"And Con's not a mummy, right? I mean not really? Bates isn't a vampire?"

"Uh, no. Con's dressed as one, but he's not really a mummy. And I think the only blood sucking Dr. Bates does is when he's ordering lab tests. You sure you're ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine...I guess. It all just seemed very real."

"It's ok, Joe. Get a good night's sleep and everything will seem better. I'll even save you some candy."

Joe relaxed slightly, the sight of his perfectly healthy sibling reassuring him that the convoluted, concentric circle of dreams was merely that. "Maybe some popcorn balls, ok? Oh, and I like those sweet tart things... and crackle bars... the little ones... some bit o' honeys, almond joys, those are good... Reese cups, kind of an old standard, but always yummy... and paydays, I like paydays..."

"You are still an overgrown kid, aren't you? I don't even know the name of that many candy bars and I'd be sick a month if I so much as thought about eating all that. Don't worry, I'll go find you enough stuff to keep the tooth fairy in business the next fifty years." Frank smiled as Joe drifted off, the occasional name of a favorite candy mumbled out in his sleep. Finally he tiptoed out of the room. He had time to get coffee and stop in the restroom before Vanessa arrived.

Frank stood splashing some water on his face at the restroom sink, expecting a long night. At least he could undo the ascot collar and itch a little less until he could get into other clothes. Loosening the fabric, a strange circle caught his eye. The base of his neck bore an angry purple red mark, puckered, with a hint of dried blood rimming around it. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was a half healed bullet hole. _What the heck?..._

 **THE END**


End file.
